


Run

by tifaching



Series: Acoustics 'Verse [30]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Acoustics 'verse, Bottom Dean, Dark, Evil Sam Winchester, Horror, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mindfuck, Rape/Non-con References, Torture, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's all set for a hunt.  He's just not sure what he's after...or what might be after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of my Acoustics 'verse, but familiarity with the verse isn't really necessary to understand the story.

There should be nothing scary about these woods at all. If anything, they’re a little too nonthreatening. Sunlight warms the air, a soft breeze ripples through the leaves and birds trill as they flit among the branches. Dean expects Bambi to step onto the path at any moment, but still he’s on guard. Nowhere is truly safe, in his experience.

He’s here for a hunt, he thinks. The ass end of nowhere isn’t any place he’d come for a pleasure trip. It bothers him a little that he’s not quite sure what he’s hunting, but the bad thing always shows itself eventually. He hefts his duffle over his shoulder and checks the rounds in his pistol for the umpteenth time. Whatever’s out there won’t catch him unprepared.

The trail forks about fifty feet in front of him, one branch winding up a sunlit path, the other dropping into the shadows of a ravine. He stops well back from the split, sweat springing out all over his body. Both ways lead to something bad, he can feel it. Whatever it is has already happened though; he feels that too, and he’s got no idea why. He looks behind him, but just the thought of turning back puts a knife in his gut. “Fine,” he mutters, forcing himself to take one step, and then another until he’s reached the fork.

Since going back isn’t an option, _never back, always forward_ , he’s got two choices; up or down. Neither is good, not good at all, but he has to pick one and take it. Standing here is just going to get him...what? He doesn’t know, but if his feet weren’t nailed to the spot with indecision, he thinks he’d be running no matter what’s up the trail. 

Dean shakes his head; foggy, like he’s just come out of a trance and a cold feeling comes over him at the thought of how much time has passed since...he got here. The urge to run is even stronger now, but it would be foolish and he’s not going to give in to it. You only run when you can’t stand and fight and standing and fighting are what he does. He’ll run if, _when_ , he has to and not before. He lurches forward, forcing his feet to move onto the branch leading up. It’s too dark the other way. It will be dark everywhere soon enough. And then... _and then_...

It gets brighter as he wends his way up the steep trail, and warmer. That’s why he’s sweating and his heart is stuttering the closer he gets to the top. _It is_. He’s out of shape, and that’s the kind of thing that gets your ass kicked. He’ll deserve it too. _You deserve this, Dean. You do_... he’s not going to run.

And he doesn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. His steps slow as he reaches the summit, but he knows he can’t stop again; can’t take the chance that this time he won’t get himself started back up. That he’ll be frozen in place when whatever is out there catches up with him. 

The effort it takes to move out onto the rocky ledge is almost too much, but he manages it; boots as heavy as if they are encased in concrete. The view is stunning; mountains bathed in hues of orange and red, _fire and blood_ , but Dean stays well back from the edge. It’s a long way down. _A long, long way_.

A dozen yard to the left, the ledge drops off into nothing and Dean scuttles in the opposite direction, moving along the tree line, looking for where the trail starts up again. Because it will start up again. It has to. There isn’t any other way to go. _Not back, never back_. He hugs the tree line for what feels like hours, but there’s no opening, no path back into the woods. There is something further down the ledge, dark and shimmering in the heat that’s beginning to sap his strength. Maybe it’s a tree and he can take a break, rest in its shade, _you shouldn’t stop_ , just for a minute.

It is a tree, growing right out of the rocky ledge. Or, Dean guesses, it used to be a tree. Now it’s nothing more than a trunk, twisting and stunted, ugly against the almost surreal beauty of the mountains and the sky. It’s light on the top, dark on the bottom and as he gets closer he can see that the darkness is moving. 

Dean’s feet drag as his body moves forward, almost against his will, _everything is against his will_. He’s got the shotgun in one hand, his Colt in the other. One of them will have the ammunition to take down whatever is up there. He hopes. There’s a hum in the air, like walking under a power line, louder and louder with each step he takes. When he’s close enough, he fires both barrels of the shotgun and the darkness scatters into a swarm of flies that darkens the sky for a mere moment. 

He hurriedly edges around the tree, so he’s out of range when the tiny bodies begin dropping like, well, flies. The dead insects patter on the stone like raindrops and he imagines the crunch they’ll make underfoot if he tries to get closer. Fortunately, or unfortunately, now that the flies are gone, he can see the tree just fine from where he is. 

Heavy metal spikes protrude from either side of the trunk about eight feet above the ground. Blood and gore saturate the wood and the five other pairs of spikes driven into the tree at intervals all the way down to the base. Dean’s shaking, though the heat hasn’t lessened. Whatever died here, hadn’t died quickly, _didn’t die at all_ , and though the stench is ripe and rotten, the blood’s as wet and fresh as if he’d just missed what had happened. He edges further away, careful not to step into the woods at his back. There’s a thin cry in the air, like a voice screaming, that echoes across the valley, but there’s no one here. _Not anymore_.

There’s movement down the ledge and Dean tears his gaze from the tree to twist around and bring the shotgun up. By the time he turns though, all he catches sight of is the end of a bushy tail disappearing into the trees. He lets out a shaky laugh. “Dude, it’s just an animal.” Just an animal. Just. There’s an opening near where the creature vanished and his thundering heart slows just a little at the prospect of having found the trail again.

Dean keeps the gun raised as he cautiously approaches the break in the dense vegetation. It looked like an animal, but he’s taking no chances. He’s been fooled before, _oh yes_ , and he pauses on the edge of the rock, all his senses thrumming on high alert. There’s a rustling in the underbrush but it’s moving away, deeper into the forest so he takes a deep breath and steps into the woods. It’s darker here, made even more so by the transition from eye-watering brightness of the ledge. It’s dangerous to stop, he’s already lost too much time at the tree, but going on without letting his vision adjust could prove just as costly. He’s not going to get taken down by being careless. This trail’s descending, and Dean starts along it, hoping the shade will provide a little relief from the unrelenting heat. 

It is cooler, but not enough. The exertion of the steep, rocky descent is just as draining as the climb up had been and he digs in the duffle for his water bottle. It’s light in his hand and only a few drops fall into his dry mouth when he upends it. A sharp pain in his ankle brings him up short and he rests for a moment on a bench-sized boulder. All his joints are aching; have been since the ledge, and he doesn’t want to slow down, but it’s pretty clear he’ll have to. 

He doesn’t rest long, and he’s careful where he puts his feet when he starts out again. There’s no one here to help him if he breaks a bone and he feels the jolt all the way up to his hips each time he steps down the trail. The empty water bottle is worrying him, but there’s got to be a water source in these woods somewhere. He’ll find it. He has to.

The trees start to thin out as he reaches the lower elevations and sweat trickles over his forehead; stinging his eyes. He’s been on the trail for what feels like forever and the sun should be heading for the horizon by now, but it’s still resolutely overhead. Light glints off something further up the trail and he pushes the sun out of his mind as he picks up his pace a little. A few minutes later, he limps out of the woods onto the shore of a small lake and he barely stops himself from backing up. _Not back, never back_.

The sun sparkles on the gently rippling water and God, he’s parched, but Dean remains where he is, uneasily studying the darkness that descends into the depths. There’s something waiting just beneath the surface to pull him under, he can feel it in his bones. Down to where the light doesn’t reach and the cold freezes your flesh and the water floods your lungs when you scream _and scream and scream_. He’s sure that he’s never been here before, _don’t go near the edge, don’t go near the edge_ , but this place is twisting his gut into knots. He could be dying of thirst and he’d never go near that lake. He follows the trail to the right, giving the shoreline a wide berth.

The trail levels out as he puts the lake in his rear view mirror, _not running, don’t run_. He shifts the duffle from shoulder to shoulder, straining harder to lift it every time, but he can’t leave it behind. The shotgun’s in it now, the Colt tucked in his waistband. His mind is screaming that one of them should be in his hand, but the strain they’re putting on his wrists and elbows make him afraid that he won’t have the strength to lift them when he actually needs to. 

The trees grow thick around him again as he gets farther from the lake. The trail is narrow, but straight and level and gradually the stabbing pain in his legs dulls to an ache. The duffle’s weighing down his left shoulder and he flexes it, rotating his sore elbow and wrist at the same time. His left arm’s always been a problem; taking two separate bullets in the shoulder will do that, but usually it doesn’t give him this much of an issue. The air is dry, not the damp that settles into his bones, but his right arm feels just as useless. He knows his body is messed up, but this is ridiculous.

The wind is picking up, but it’s not cooling things down any. Dean moves slowly to conserve energy and fluids, but he’s weakening fast. If he doesn’t find water soon he’s going to go down right here on the trail, _what fun will that be_ , easy meat for whatever might be out there. He coughs harshly as he moves slowly forward; since the lake his lungs have been laboring way more than they should be for a hike in the woods. He spits a gob of watery phlegm to the side and soldiers on along the never ending trail.

Dean sends glances skyward whenever there’s a big enough gap in the trees, but it’s impossible to tell how much time is passing from the unchanging position of the sun. His head’s starting to spin and he begins to lose track of his surroundings. He doesn’t even notice the water flowing across the trail until he’s practically standing in it.

The stream is cold, fresh and so clear he can see all the way to the sandy bottom. Nothing can be hiding in it, but he chucks a rock in, just to be sure. It drops, unimpeded, and he watches perfect circles spread over the surface. What he’s seen, what he’s felt, make him unwilling to trust anything, but it feels like nothing bad has ever happened here. His hunter’s instincts remind him that it doesn’t mean something bad won’t happen here. _To him. Always to him_.

The woods are silent, nothing’s moving out there, but he tries to stay vigilant as he drops to his aching knees beside the stream. The water he slurps from his cupped hands is almost the best thing he’s ever tasted and he drinks his fill before soaking his head with a few more handfuls. The water chills his scalp; running down his cheeks in refreshing rivulets. His collar’s soaked and drops darken his t-shirt, shocking his overheated skin.

He sighs, weighing his options though he knows there really only is one. He needs more water; what he’s taken so far isn’t enough to re-hydrate him, but he can’t stay here much longer. _Keep moving, always moving_. He takes a few more mouthfuls, willing his stomach not to send it all back out. The water bottle seems half the size it had been, _can’t make things too easy_ , and he fills it to the brim before tucking it away again. He’ll have to ration it until he gets where he’s going, that’s all. 

Dean lifts his drooping head and runs his gaze along the stream until he picks up the trail. It crosses the stream of course. To have it follow the water would be more luck than he thinks he should expect here. A nearby sapling bends nearly in half as he uses it to lever himself up and he sways for a moment while his legs decide whether they’re going to hold him or not. He gives the water one last wistful look as he carefully crosses it, rocks shifting treacherously beneath his feet. He briefly considers following the stream instead of the trail but discards the idea almost immediately. Leaving the trail is like running: only when there’s no other option.

Hours pass, or maybe days, he can’t really be sure any more. Hours, most likely, he thinks taking a sip of warm water and groaning as he shifts the duffle from shoulder to shoulder. If it had been days he’s pretty sure he’d be out of water by now. The forest is so thick that he can’t see around him, can’t see above him. The only direction that’s visible is straight ahead along the unbending trail, and there’s something dark in the distance. He wonders if it’s a mirage; wonders if mirages even happen in forests and puts one foot in front of the next until the darkness is right in front of him.

It’s not a mirage, it’s a cave. In a cliff that he can see now that the trees are a few paces behind him. The trail goes into it but Dean doesn’t. Not right away, anyway. The forest runs in a straight line on both sides of the trail and so does the cliff; stretching so far into the distance that he can’t see the end of either one. There’s water flowing over the cliff; falling into a bathtub sized depression at the base, then disappearing into the rock. Dean hurries to the trail’s edge and holds out the bottle, but the stream gushes just beyond the reach of his outstretched arm. One step will get him to the desperately needed water, but he can’t force his feet to take it. 

“It’s right there!” his brain is screaming. “One step and you’ve got it!” One step. He doesn’t take it. The trail goes into the rock. The water goes into the rock. Maybe there’s a river under the cliff, he thinks, or a still, clear pool; perfectly reflecting a cavern’s ceiling. Even if there isn’t either, it’s still the only way he has to go. _If you leave the trail it’s all ove_ r. 

He pauses at the cavern’s entrance, digging his flashlight out of the duffle and praying that the batteries are still good. It’s too late now to wish that he’d picked up a branch or two out in the woods to make torches out of. He takes a deep breath and steps into the darkness.

The air inside the cave is damp and heavy; Dean’s breath crackles in his lungs and when he coughs it feels like hours before the echoes fade into ominous whispers. The walls and ceiling press down on him, like the whole mountain is sitting on his chest. He shines the flashlight over the rough stone, trying to keep from panic in the narrow tunnel. The light from the entrance has long since faded; not that he looked back as he traveled. The light at the other end is what he seeks now.

The trail is straight, mostly, with a few slight curves here and there. Occasionally an opening will appear to one side, but Dean barely pauses. The trail goes on and so does he. _On and on until the end of the line_. There’s a muttering in the distance, but he tells himself that it’s the wind, or even better, that it’s water. The stream went underground and he’s going to go with the power of positive thinking. He’ll find it down here somewhere.

There’s a slight downward slope to the path and Dean tries to put the idea that he’s headed for the center of the earth out of his mind. As he goes deeper, whiffs of smoke intermittently float into his nostrils, carrying on them a faint aroma he can’t quite identify. He hesitates halfway around the sharpest bend the trail has offered; light flickering off of the walls from a point he can’t yet see. He pulls the Colt from his waistband, silently wincing as its weight pulls his arm down. Back to the wall, he inches forward, raising the gun as the trail suddenly enters a vaulted chamber.

Torches line the walls in metal brackets, casting the chamber in macabre shadows. Formations of stone rise from the floor; hang from the ceiling. Dean’s eyes slide off of them into a pit in the center of the floor. Charred wood is piled high beneath a metal contraption and the smell of roasted meat is heavy on the air. His stomach rumbles; he can’t remember the last time he ate, but he remains frozen in the doorway, straining to see if anything is hiding in the shadows. Nothing moves, the silence is absolute and finally, heart hammering, he moves forward.

Whoever lit the torches must be around somewhere; fire doesn’t burn forever. He wants to grab one and give the batteries in his flashlight a rest, but the brackets are out of his reach. The rock…formations…aren’t close enough to stand on even if he could force himself to go near one. The metal turns out to be a spit, but it’s sure not like the one Dad used to roast chickens on whenever they had a house with a barbecue. This one was made for something much larger and Dean glances around, his unease growing. Since he’s been here, _how long now_?, he’s seen birds and bugs and whatever was on the other end of the tail he’d spotted on the ledge; nothing that’s even close to big enough to warrant that much fire. The middle of an underground cavern isn’t a likely place for a cookout and he wonders what had made whoever stopped here choose it. _Because it’s where they ran their dinner to ground_.

The trail runs right by the pit and as he approaches he can see bits of blackened flesh adhered to the metal skewer. His appetite abruptly disappears and he sways gently where he stands. It’s getting warm in the chamber; hot even, and moisture that he can’t afford to lose begins to run down his body. He can just make out the exit in the torch lit shadows and he hurries toward it, hoping it’ll be cooler on the other side. He’s just a few feet away when there’s a crackling sizzle from behind him, like hot fat dripping onto coals. He whirls, bringing the gun up, but the chamber’s still empty, the fire still cold. Just for a moment, the muttering in the distance sounds like laughter.

It’s not cooler outside the chamber. Instead the temperature climbs until Dean begins to think the center of the earth isn’t such a joke after all. His flashlight is dimming and he can’t spare one single second of battery life to check and see if his skin is really peeling off, _not time for that yet_ , like it feels like it is. The murmuring noise is getting louder and as he approaches its source he can hear splashing. The underground stream; fucking finally.

A few final turns bring him to another waterfall and, unexpectedly, the exit. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden brightness; almost takes a step back, but manages to pitch forward instead. The falling water covers the opening entirely, a clear sheet of life and Dean plunges into it. He holds his breath and lets the icy liquid flow over him, soothing his burning skin but sinking daggers of pain into his aching bones. His congested lungs can’t stand the strain for long and he bursts out into the open air with a coughing gasp. 

He’s kicking himself for not taking the time to fill his bottle before he passed through the opening, but the water’s right behind him as he turns. He doesn’t have to take a step back to reach it and he fills and drains his container four times before giving it one last topping off and surveying himself and his surroundings.

His skin’s flushed with exertion and doughy from dehydration, but it’s not cracked and blackened like the pain radiating off of it would indicate. He needs to start moving again to work the stiffness out of his frozen joints, but he’s going to have to take it slow. The sun is still smack dab overhead, _it won’t move, not until…_ , so he must have been in the cave all night.

A warm breeze drifts around him and he shivers, chilled in his wet clothing. He doesn’t have spare anything in the bag and even if he did, it’s soaked through too. Dean briefly entertains the idea of stripping down and letting the warm sun dry his body and his clothes, but he knows he doesn’t have that kind of time. He’s got to get…somewhere and he can’t hang around here much longer. “Besides,” he thinks with a snort, “you’re not going to run around this place naked.” _Not yet_.

Just like on the far side of the cave, the cliff looming above him stretches into infinity in both directions. The path moves forward through a sea of waving grass, and there’s a dark line in the distance that could be trees. His waterlogged jeans are heavy, and his t-shirt is sopping and he almost stops long enough to wring them out. It’s only seconds before he puts the kibosh on that idea though. He’s not going to trade a little comfort now for the chance of some much needed moisture later. One squelching step after another, he moves down the trail, dripping water leaving a dark trail behind him in the soft dirt.

Exhaustion’s dogging his every step now, the grass softly waving in a gentle pattern that’s doing nothing to convince his drooping eyelids that there’s anything worth staying open to see. The trees, if that’s what they are, are still hazy in the distance, though Dean’s not sure if it’s the distance or his eyesight that’s to blame for the haze. He’s starting to stagger, weaving a zig-zag path across the trail. A couple of times he comes close to weaving right off of it, but he manages to catch himself in time. Eventually, it all gets to be too much; his joints ache so badly that he can barely move and his lungs labor for every bit of oxygen they can process. He’s burning and freezing at the same time and his steps wind down to nothing as he stumbles to a halt. 

He stares into the meadow, vision dulled by exhaustion. He can’t leave the trail, but something else did. A path of downtrodden stalks leads a foot or two away to an oblong area where the grass has been crushed as if a large animal had bedded down there for the night. Or a pair of lovers had met here for a tryst. _Lovers? No. No_. Snaking into the oval from each end, from each side, is a length of braided grass with a loop at the end. Someone was tied down here. _Lovers_. There’s blood where…without warning Dean vomits; warm water fountaining onto the flattened grass. It glitters in the sunlight, just above the patch of blood, but it’s milky white not clear. The taste in Dean’s mouth isn’t bile; it’s bitter, salty and without thinking he takes a step back, then another as something shatters in his mind.

He’s been here before, oh yes. Many times on many trails and he remembers. He remembers spikes being driven through wrists and elbows, ankles and knees, ending with his shoulders and hips being nailed to the tree. He remembers being pulled into the lake and being pounded into the muck at the bottom. He remembers the cave and the rock formations coming to life and grabbing him, keeping him still for his captor’s amusements until the fire got hot enough to cook on. And he remembers this. The ropes holding him down, helpless and spread open for…for…

Dean looks up in panic. The sun’s moved; it’s closer to the horizon and he feels a familiar power grip him, washing his pain and exhaustion away. He’s revitalized; rested and healthy, a battered toy repaired so that it can be broken in some new and horribly inventive way.

“Ready or not, here I come.” Sam’s still miles away, but his whisper carries along the breeze until it shivers in his brother’s ears and Dean begins to run.


End file.
